Remembering Karen Wolfe Jarnigan

Karen Wolfe (Jarnigan), Del Stone Jr., and Elizabeth Hefflefinger goof around in the parking lot of the Daily News in Fort Walton Beach, Fla., waiting for snow that was forecast to fall one Christmas Eve in the mid-1990s.

It’s a cold, gray day here in the panhandle of Florida and I’m remembering Karen Wolfe Jarnigan.

Thanksgiving Day, 1993. Karen is hosting a holiday get-together for us newsroom types at her Okaloosa Island townhouse. She’s got the Dolphins-Cowboys game on TV, and as a Dolphins’ fan, I’m mesmerized. She and I make plans for a concert in Pensacola. Then, a miracle on ice: A Cowboys player slips on the sleet-coated field and knocks the ball into the end zone, giving the Dolphins a chance to kick a game-winning field goal. They do. Dolphins win, 16-14.

Monday night. I’m city editor. Karen is cops reporter, something she doesn’t normally do. She must be filling in for somebody. There’s been a triple homicide, the ghastly Edward Zakrzewski case. The details are so horrible Karen is on the verge of tears, but she works the story and somehow gets the name of the suspect, which we report, exclusively, the next morning.

Five o’clock in the morning of Oct. 3, 1995. My telephone rings. I pick it up. “THERE’SACATEGORY3HURRICANEHEADINGRIGHTATUSCANIEVACUATE – ” I hold up my hand, placating, though she can’t see it because she lives 10 miles away in Mary Esther, with Tracey Steele and Marley the cat. I tell her to let me check the TV. I’ll call her right back. I turn on The Weather Channel. There’s John Hope, TWC’s geriatric hurricane expert, pointing to a nasty vortex called Opal, smack dab in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, racing for the western Florida panhandle. I call her back. “You can – ” “OK bye!” she shouts and drops the phone. Thus begins a strange evacuation odyssey that will be retold in stories for years to come.

I’m driving down Hollywood Boulevard one sleepy Saturday afternoon and I spot the complex of Cumulus radio stations coming up. On impulse I pull in to wave at Karen through the studio window during her afternoon gig. She drags me into the booth and we have an impromptu on-air session.

Doc calls and asks a favor. He wants me to make sure Karen is in the newsroom on a certain day at a certain time. He has something planned. So I come up with a cock-eyed story for Karen about an important interview subject dropping by the newsroom at the appointed hour. I need her to be there. Make sure she’s there! Karen asks questions. She knows something is up; she just doesn’t know what. We do this back-and-forth thing and I’m sure, I’m just POSITIVE, she’s going to bolt from the newsroom like a filly breaking out of its paddock. But finally, there’s Doc, over by Dorothy’s desk. He’s wearing a black tux. He’s carrying a dozen roses, so red they look like Disney roses. The newsroom falls silent as he threads his way through the desks to Karen. She’s understandably shocked. He drops to one knee, and Karen’s hand flies to her mouth, the way everyone’s hand flies to their mouth when they’re asked to share their life with another person. It’s all very, very good.

Karen and Doc’s wedding. It looks like most everybody from the Daily News and WKSM is there. It’s held at a church I’ve never attended; the room is bright. Everyone is happy.

Karen comes up with an idea. We should give a small award for people in the newsroom who’ve done a good job on a story, photo, column, page, or whatever. These awards would be given out each week during our Wednesday staff meeting. The presenter would rotate among the staff and would be responsible for picking out a token gift – a candy bar from the vending machine, an inexpensive plastic cup, just something. Everybody loves the idea. Thus, the Wolfie Awards are born, named for their creator. Eventually the newspaper pays a $25 stipend for each Wolfie. Even today, when Daily News vets from the ’90s and ’00s get together, the subject of the Wolfies comes up.

The year is 2000. I’m in Dayton, Ohio, for my niece’s wedding. At the reception I’m talking to Chris, a wise guy from the same part of New York where Karen once lived. I take out my brick of a cell phone, a trusty Nokia perpetually strapped to my waist, and call Karen. I tell her I’m talking to a wise guy from the same part of New York where she once lived. I hand the phone to the wise guy. He and Karen talk New York stuff. I approve. This is appropriate for a guy who’s four beers into his niece’s wedding reception.

Other memories, floating in my mind like confetti:

Karen ushers in the granny-gown-and-combat-boots look for the newsroom.

We go to the concert in Pensacola and people think I’m her dad.

I make Karen cry by being a jerk to her in a budget meeting.

Karen, Elizabeth Hefflefinger and I stand in the Daily News parking lot on a cold and cloudy Christmas Eve, watching for snowflakes that never fall.

And now, another memory. Of a phone call missed, and a text message with the terrible news.

Karen was a sweet soul.

She loved fiercely and she was loved with equal ferocity, not just by those who knew her but the community at large, which made her acquaintance through her stories in

the newspaper and her sessions at the radio station.

            She is remembered by more people than we’ll ever know.

I’ve missed her for years, and I miss her even more knowing I can’t pick up the phone and yell, “Hey Wolfie! What are you doing?”

A sad day.

I want her husband, Doc, and her kids to know they brought her all the happiness a person can want in this world. In fact, I can’t think of a better epitaph for anybody:

She was happy.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .